Resurgence
by deadheadwookie27
Summary: There was only one of them left, and he was the most dangerous. But something has come from the darkest depths and only that one man can save them. What will happen when he refuses to help? HHr
1. Chapter 1

**Hello to all. I haven't used the document manager in some time. In actuality I haven't even used Microsoft Word in some time. There's been no urge for me to write or to do anything. It's been a rough few years actually. But I have this idea here. Kind of the cliche, one man against the world soldier type. So let's see how it goes. Thank you for checking this out. And welcome, to Resurgence.**

**Chapter One:  
Hard But Good People**

"Joyce, gimme another whiskey, straight up, please?" She nodded in return, listening more to her husband and Stan Lentz arguing about their card game. Someone accused someone of hiding cards, but he was tuning it all out. He leaned forward onto the bar. It was a small, dingy place, where he went to get away from it all.

Lee's was the only bar in town. There was a small kitchen with one stove, a fridge, and a microwave. There was only one bathroom, and it always smelled like piss and bleach. It was little more than a broom closet, something he hated, but he never had to use it. He could go outside for that. As a matter o' fact most patrons did just that. Not that Joyce or Lee minded.

It was a town of about a hundred fifty people year round with one temperature—cold as the tits on a nun. Thankfully the Bobbies kept a space heater going in the back corner. That's where old man George Cooper would rest his tired bones, basking in the heat he was not privileged to have in his trailer.

Cooper had to have been close to eighty years old. That's why they called him Old George, or Old Man Cooper. He'd been amongst the first to live in town, a town that didn't even have a name.

It had no postal address or post offices. It had one small market and a gun store. The gun store doubled as a tackle shop. Bullets and Bait the owner, Kenny Travis, called it. Every one shopped there, because everyone hunted and fished. It was the way of the town. It was their way of life. And a good life it was.

One week out of the year the weather would warm up, no hotter than seventy-two (the hottest recorded day in the town's history and it was still talked and raved about by Old George, for he was the only one left to have remembered it. He'd say, "I ain't never been so warm in my life. Ain't never seen deer that many and ain't never seen fish that big."), now it would grow to a mild sixty-five. But that's all you could expect up in the mountains like that. Cold weather and hard people. But hard people, he had found, were good people. Good people with no secrets or ill intentions, just people living their lives. That was what he'd been looking for.

"Here ya go Tiger." Joyce put down the whiskey. Straight up, only ice.

"Ah, thank you. Needed this today."

Joyce tilted her head to the side. She was pretty. Thirty-seven, pale skin with extremely red hair. Not orange, red. Like the colour of a rose or blood. The good kind of red. And she had tons of freckles. He could see why Lee had married her. She was strong, a helluva shot with a .30-.30, and pretty. A naturally good woman as well. Plus she made one strong drink.

"Rough day, Jim?" She asked, picking up the glass Hank Royce had left lying next to Jim. She grimaced at the grime around the edge and the oily finger prints contoured to the sides of the glass. Waiting for his reply, she picked up a dishrag and began washing it thoroughly.

He shrugged. "It's been a rough week. All my trees are rotted from those damn beetles during our siesta and now I'm paying for it in shitty firewood." The Siesta is what they called the warm period. Everyone would hold picnics and the kids, how few there were, would play together. Once they had opened a small pool, but soon found that to be a bad idea, the water froze when the week cut short.

Joyce nodded, "Yeah, Lee and I are having that problem too. We are lucky to have that damn heater over there. Hey, George! Get away from the front of that or your pants'll catch fire!" George waved her off and went back to his card game with Lee, Stan Lentz, and Carl Mannihan. "Electric bill is through the roof though." She shrugged. "What can ya do?"

"Not a whole helluva lot. Say do you know who took the Cup this year?" Jim asked, downing his drink slowly, savoring ever moment of it.

Joyce kept cleaning the glass. "No idea. Radio's just shootin' static, busted antenna up on the mountain we think. Last time we went into Bayside we forgot to ask."

Bayside was the closest town with a post office and supermarket. That's where their town got the supplies they needed. And during the first three months after the Siesta, there was no passage to Bayside by car or truck. The mountain always snowed over. But they got by.

"Yeah I was having problems with mine too. Radio hasn't cut out like that before. Wonder what's goin on up there?"

Shrugging, Joyce said, "No idea. But you know how they are up there in Riverview, an odd bunch. If you ask me they—HEY! Stanley Lentz you put that crowbar down! Where the hell did you even get that from?" Joyce slammed down the glass and her cloth and marched towards the poker table.

Jim shook his head and took another gulp of his drink. He watch the cubes clink around in the glass. It was nice to not have to worry about anything, _except for those damned trees_, he thought bitterly. He looked outside and saw it had begun snowing again. "Eh shit," he said more to himself than anyone in particular. He'd better start heading home. Even in the 4x4 it was rough riding in the snow. He left a few bucks on the bar and went to get his jacket when he felt a rush of cold air. It blew his hat across the room. Someone walked in.

But everyone in town knew to open the door softly and slowly, to avoid that cold mountain air from bursting forth like a drunken, abusive uncle. It was someone from out of town. And Jim got an uneasy feeling. He wrapped his hand around his glass and slowly sat back down. Waiting.

Everyone stopped talking and stared at the stranger. He was tall and lanky, dressed in a black overcoat. He radiated pretension. He took his fancy, _expensive_ leather gloves off slowly and looked around the room, scoffing softly at the sight. The apprehension between the townsfolk and the newcomer could be cut with a knife.

"Who owns this," he paused slightly trying to come up with a word for it, "_place_." It rolled off his tongue like a dying snake sliding off the side of a riverbed, and floating down stream.

Joyce straightened up. "It's my place." Her anger was not unnoticed. Joyce was a very patient and compassionate woman. She had to be patient to own the only bar and eatery in town. But her anger went unparalleled when invoked. It was legendary. And it was present.

"Ah, good. I'll have a… oh bollocks what do they call it… a…" While stumbling over his words the door opened again. And someone else walked in. By the sound of heels, Jim figured it was a woman. He hoped he was wrong.

"I'm sorry for my colleagues foul attitude, ma'am," the woman said. "He'll have a gin and tonic and, if you please, may I have seltzer water?"

"Fuck," Jim cursed under his breath, signaling to Joyce, who had worked her way behind the bar again, for another whiskey. She poured his first and then beckoned the other two to a table at the other corner of the room.

The man began to speak again but before uttering something stupid, the woman punched him in the arm. There was no more talk from him and they sat down.

Joyce brought them their drinks and the woman thanked her. Rounding the bar again, Joyce leaned low close to Jim so she could whisper. "What's goin' on shoog? You know them don't you?"

Jim put his head between his elbows that were leaning on the bar. His hand still around the glass. "You know last Siesta when I broke Fred Dallas' jaw?"

"Yeah?"

"You had better get ready for something just like it to happen again," he warned.

"Ah… I'll let Lee and the boys know. Just do me a favor, hun?"

He glanced up at her.

"Try not to bust up Ol' Albert up too much, huh? I don't think he'll take another fight." She nodded her head towards the big mounted skull of a moose, just above the window and broken jukebox.

Jim smiled slightly and then glanced over at the boys staring from the poker table. All of them held their hands on their six shooters. "Calm them down over there for me, Joyce. They'll just get themselves killed. These aren't the kind of people you walk away from a fight with empty handed."

Joyce quickly glanced apprehensively at the stump where Jim's left hand should have been. He didn't have his hook attached. It was in the truck. He preferred to keep it off. He felt more comfortable without it. But she nodded and went over to them. He saw all of the men, Old George, Lee, Stan, and Carl visibly tense and then move their hands from the grips of their revolvers. None of them stopped staring at the strangers however. Joyce made her way back to Jim.

"Remember, hun, I got Betty Sue behind the bar here." Betty Sue was a .84 Caliber Double Barrel Muzzleloader with a 1600 grain bullet that had been passed down from her great grandfather to her grandfather and so on. It was one hell of a rifle, and though obsolete, it would blow a man clear in half.

"Thanks," he said and got ready for it. He heard one of the chairs slide out and footsteps approach him. "I'd back up if I were you, Joyce."

A finger tapped his shoulder. He didn't turn around.

"Hi, Harry," a female voice spoke.

Jim grimaced. "Don't know anyone named Harry. You got the wrong person."

"Oh really? So what _is_ your name?"

"He's Jim Hoffer." Joyce said coldly, her hand moving underneath the bar. Jim shook his head slightly. She stopped.

"No he isn't!" The man stood up, Jim heard the chair fall back and hit the floor. All the boys stood up just as fast with their hands flying to their sides. "He's Harry Potter and he owes me a damn good explanation."

Jim heard the woman mutter underneath her breath. _For Merlin's sake, Ron._

She then addressed everyone. "I'm sorry for my brother's rudeness, please, we only need to speak with our friend Harry hear-"

"My name ain't Harry," Jim said, finishing his drink and standing up, still not taking his hand off the glass. "And I ain't your friend." Jim was a tall, strong man. Built like a tank. He could easily lift a decent sized tree trunk off the ground and into his truck by himself. His jaw was square and large under a burly beard and his hair was black and unruly. He was only about twenty-eight but there were scars riddled across his face, making him appear to be twenty years older. His hair was graying and he was blind in one eye where a large, viciously pink scar ran through it. But his other eye, his good one, was a furious and alluring green. Cat-like most would say. And then there was his missing hand. It was more from halfway up his forearm to the hand that was gone, but he just said it was his hand. No one in town knew how it had gone missing. They just knew that sometimes he wore a clamp or a hook. Once, drunkenly at a Siesta, he'd shown them a prototype for a knife he'd been working on.

He rounded on the pair. "And I suggest y'all leave, before you get hurt." Jim was a head taller than Ron, his shoulders at least double the other mans. But, Ron was stubborn and pushed past the woman, walking right up to Jim. He poked him in the chest.

"I don't have to take any shite from _you_! He can be the Boy-Who-Lived all he wants but he is gonna take the time to talk to us!" The man's face was as red as Joyce's hair. He was shouting now, spittle flying from his jowls like a hungry lion. But he was nothing compared to the mighty king of the jungle.

"I suggest you take your finger off me," Jim said coldly, glancing down at Ron's finger still poking him in the chest. The redheaded man grinned, trying to be menacing, but it made him look half autistic.

"And what are you going to do if I don't? You don't have the balls! You never did unless you had help from us. What-Are-You-Going-To-Bloody-Do? You only have one hand and one eye!" Ron accentuated each point by poking Jim again and again. The room went absolutely silent and still.

Jim heard Joyce suck air in through her teeth. She said, "He warned you pal."

Ron looked over Jim's shoulder at her. "Shut yer fuckin' trap you cun-" But he never finished his thought. As a matter of fact he didn't talk a week after that sentence was uttered. It happened incredibly fast.

Jim swung with all his might, whiskey glass in hand, and connected with Ron's temple, next to the ear. With the pain and tinnitus, his equilibrium off kilter, Ron staggered, and Jim grabbed him by his neck, sweeping his legs with an easy kick.

Jim's hand was already swelling from the force of the impact and there was still glass imbedded in his skin, but his rage took over. He picked Ron clear up off the floor, and even higher than that. Jim had to look up to see into the man's eyes. They were filled with absolute terror and excruciating pain. He tried to yelp but Jim's hand just clenched tighter. The glass was cutting into Ron's neck, sending small streams of blood over Jim's fingers and onto his shirt sleeve. Ron kicked out but it had no effect.

"I could kill you. One snap of my wrist and you'd go limper than a buck on opening day. You understand where we are at? We aren't fucking friends-" He pointedly looked at the woman, stared her down. He saw her reach to her side but froze suddenly. Her eyes were filled with fear as well.

"I wouldn't do that, shoog." It was Joyce. She was holding the double barrel tight to her shoulder. Thumb on the hammer, ready to make it go _BOOM_ any second. "I don't know what you're reachin' for, but you don't strike me as someone who knows a lot about guns so let me tell you about this. This is Betty Sue, she's an old relic, somethin' they don't use no more. It's a double barreled .84 caliber muzzleloader. You know why they don't use it no more? Course you don't. They don't use it no more 'cause it hurts like a sonuvabitch. It kicks like a buck in heat. But she's strong. I watched my granddaddy put a hole in a big old Kody. This bear was the size of a small car. The hole my granddaddy put in it was bout the size of a basketball. I personally have turned a mountain lion into pulled pork with it. And the best part?" Joyce pulled the hammers back. "At this range I can't miss even if I tried."

The woman turned and looked back, staring down the barrel of four different Colt .44s. The numbers were stacked against her, and that her brother's face was turning purple. His kicking was slowly. She gulped and removed her hand from her waistband.

Joyce smirked. "Good girl," she chastised as if the woman was a dog sitting down or a horse that stopped bucking around.

"You're the one with no balls, Ron Weasley. Don't ever touch me again." Jim looked at the woman. "Here," he tossed the man at her feet and crouched down to look him in the face. "Now get the fuck out of my bar and get the fuck out of my town."

Ron gasped for air and began fumbling through his overcoat. Jim lifted a heavy, booted foot into the air and brought it down quickly onto the man's leg. There was a sickening snap and Ron began screaming. Horrified, his sister grabbed him under the arms and began hauling him out of the bar. Jim turned back to the bar and began picking pieces of glass out of his hand.

"Harry," The woman said from the door.

"My name is not Harry, Ginny Weasley, my name is Jim. You do best to remember it. And do _not_ come back here." He turned his good eye at her and stared her down, like a bull to an unlucky matador.

The woman back out the door and was gone.

Joyce handed Jim a bag of ice and his hat. He thanked her and tipped his hat at the boys. While walking towards the door, Joyce called his name. He stopped and turned to her.

"Who were they? I know it's nun-my-business, but why did they wanna talk to you and why'd they keep callin' you Harry? I ain't seen you mad like that in a long time."

With a tired blink Jim said, "Joyce, it's a long story and I'm too tired to tell it. But if they show up 'round here again," he looked at everyone, "know that they are extremely dangerous and blow 'em to hell." Everyone watched somberly as he walked out of the door and into the snow driven night. The sound of his truck broke the silence and faded off slowly into the distance, up into the mountain towards his home.

Joyce looked around the bar. The chair was broken, she was short a whiskey glass, and there was blood across the bar and floor. Plus those two strangers hadn't paid for their drinks. Someone let out a low whistle. "Yeah, you can say that again," she said. And then she looked at the men all standing around the poker table. "The hell you all doin'? Get over here and help me start moppin' this shit up!"

**Now that you've read it what do you think? I'm working on the next chapter but I want to update weekly rather than when it's done so I don't burn myself out. Ideas? Questions? Comments? Ladiesthatwanttothrowthemselvesatme?... wait what?**


	2. Chapter 2: Heart of Darkness

**Hey there sports fans! I just wanna give a shoutout really quick to the people who read chapter one (And a gracious thank you for the welcome back and your time given) and perhaps answer a few questions.**

**To capctr: I actually live in New Jersey and have never been to Alaska (though I would love to live there). Honestly I just read a LOT of Stephen King haha :P but I am really glad to hear that's what it's like. And I do believe it is Alaska, or some providence between there and Canada. I'm still working out the small little details (though perhaps that is a rather large one...). But I thank you wholeheartedly for your review. It made me happy to be writing again! I can't tell you what happened just yet, nor can I tell you what is going to happen. Pacific Rim was absolutely incredible! I was super excited for it (I've been a Godzilla fan since I could blink and fart so Kaiju ftw), but this is not going to be a crossover. Though I'm sure there are hundreds in the works so far. I will tell you this, something happened that changed Jim forever. And I hope it goes according to plan. Thank you again!**

**To all asking about the scars and the missing hand, it will come in time. The way I'm taking an approach to this story is different from the others. I'm writing a bit. Waiting a day. Reading it over and taking out parts I don't like. Then I put those parts into a folder, write a new section and if I don't like that, I can add the old parts again. Like this chapter was way different from what it was but it just wasn't going anywhere. So Hopefully y'all enjoy this one. I'm quite pleased with it even if it is a bit shorter. I promise the next one will be longer.**

**I just want to thank you all again for the warm welcome back and the positive feedback for this story. Have fun with this next chapter!**

**Deadheadwookie27**

**Chapter 2:  
Heart of Darkness  
**

Something began stirring in the heart of the Congo. It was soft at first, no more than an odd smell upon the breeze. But it began to grow exponentially. And with it, the tribe grew just as nervous.

Their tribe had no name. They had not been found since the Belgians came across them while trekking across the area. They called them Mensen van Magie, or People of Magic. And that's what they were. They were the people of the jungle, living and breathing through the ground and the trees. Listening to the natural magic that flowed through the air. They relied on the jungle and in return they protected it. But there was something growing deep in its heart. Deep inside its magical core. And it was something that the tribe could not fight.

However, that did not stop their Shaman. The Belgians had called him De Man Met Vele Zielen, The Man with Many Souls. In the concept of time, his age was not known. Not to outsiders, his people, nor himself. He was pure and he was legend. And he was the only one brave enough to fight the evil.

The lead Belgian explorer, Sweder Schoofs, wrote in his journal about the Shaman.

_"He moves like Death itself, but not with the harshness or hostility of the Reaper. Step after step there is no sound; he is a snake in the grass with no venom or evil. He is a pure man with many souls and he is a powerful man."_

He left his village in the light of day, reaching the cave by nightfall. He wore nothing, for he needed nothing. He brought no weapons for he needed only the magic of the jungle. It was speaking to him, guiding him over logs and around pitfalls. There was a leopard nearby but it would not come near. It knew better by instinct, and the jungle would not allow it.

The cave was deep in the jungle. Joseph Conrad had called the Congo the Heart of Darkness for a reason. It was an unforgiving place for outsiders, ladled with hungry beasts and plants from the realms of nightmares. When the sun set there was no moonlight. There was only darkness. And in the place of the cave, for the first time in his life, the Shaman felt cold.

It was an evil place. He could see the darkest colours of magic hopping across the trees like the apes. He could hear their whispers and feel the tendrils of their deceit and malice creep down his spine. His ears tickled and his head throbbed. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead. He felt old. And he knew he was in trouble.

The Shaman spread his legs and got down low. He put his palms on the ground, drawing from his mother jungle the power he needed to stop this evil. He felt the warmth crawl up his arms slowly, like gentle kisses, and he felt better. But suddenly it stopped. And he felt nothing but pain.

He screamed and writhed, trying to take his palms off the ground but they would not budge. He felt the darkness overtake the warmth, replacing it with sharpness and cold. His skin started to crawl, moving around as if insects had burrowed inside and were feasting upon his succulent meat. In all his years upon the planet, the Shaman had never felt fear. And now that was all he felt.

The whispers stopped abruptly. Silence filled the air. His hands flung from the dirt as if someone had thrown him from the spot. The bugs had left and the pain was gone. There was nothing but the jungle and him.

Something, however, was not right. He felt empty. He called to the jungle for guidance. But the jungle did not call back. In fact he could not feel his connection to the world around him. He didn't feel the power anymore.

The air began to laugh. At first it was a deep laugh that came from within the belly, deep and evil. Then another came from the left, slightly higher pitched. Then another. And another. And another. The laughter came from all over, now the cackles so loud his ears bled. He felt dizzy and fell to his knees. And from between the laughter he felt a cold, wispy grasp on his shoulder. Like a squeeze from a ghost. His ear tingled as a woman whispered in his ear. And then he understood.

His magic was gone. Taken from him like a fish from water. The laughter stopped and he heard a twig cracked. The leopard had moved in and there was nothing he could do to stop it. One single high pitch scream filled the air. The leopard pounced. And the laughter started again.

His eyes opened slowly. At first he saw dirt and grass as yellow as the sun. He felt overly hot and began to sweat. He heard heavy footsteps in the distance and felt a rumble in his chest. He knew where he was, but it wasn't possible. He closed his eyes and opened them again. There was his room, small and dark, the outlines of furniture barely visible in the darkness.

Jim shivered. He had soaked his sheets with sweat. Dreams he couldn't remember flooded his brain, just out of reach from fully formed memories. When he closed his eyes he could see flashes of places he'd been. There were faces long since gone and deeds desperately pushed out of consciousness.

He flipped out of bed and started doing pushups, sending the cold stiffness fleeing from his fingertips and his stump. His back was freezing, a pool of sweat stuck into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to his flesh. Jim figured a hot shower would do him some good.

He flipped on the light switch and made his way across the bedroom into the bathroom. The tile made him jump slightly. He turned on the water and the pipes hissed and creaked, like an old angry dragon. Jim stripped of his shirt and long underwear.

The hot spray stung slightly. He felt as if his skin would crack, but he didn't care. It felt amazing. But as quickly as it started, it ended. The dogs started barking. And not the kind of barking that meant a squirrel or a 'coon. It was manic and nervous barking. There was something much bigger than a squirrel outside.

Jim jumped out of the shower without turning it off. He grabbed his thermal underwear, pants and his claw, putting them on quickly while he raced down the stairs, barely making the fourth step (the one that was warped and always creaked) wheeze. His jacket and hat sat on the rack above the light switch near the door. Below sat his 12-gauge. He put on the jacket and hat, tightening them as to not let the cold air in, slipped on his pack boots, and grabbed the shotgun. There was a flashlight attached beneath the polished barrel, but he didn't want to use it right away. He turned the lights off, let his eyes adjust, and slowly opened the door. Easing the gun out first and then himself. He closed it softly behind him without a noise.

The sight above his home was incredible. With darkness all day and night, the only light was either the moon or the Aura Borealis. And tonight it was glowing with a magnitude of different colours, all shimmering and slithering across the night sky like a giant serpent. It danced beneath the stars to the unheard music from the heavens. It was quite beautiful. And quiet. Too quiet.

The dogs had stopped barking. There was nothing now. Neither wind nor snow swept across the open farmland. If it could be called that. The only noise he could hear was the breathing and grunting from the ox behind the fence, the herd moving slowly in their patterns across the tundra, looking for any sort of grass. For some reason they refused to sleep in the warmth of the large barn, preferring the open and harsh landscape.

He moved with efficiency and grace, not crunching the snow beneath his boots. At one point he slipped through too far, going to his thigh in a drift, but he eased his way out and continued onward. He'd had years of practice on moving with silence, being one with the environment, like the Reaper himself.

It was a short walk on a clear day to the kennel. But after a heavy and harsh snowfall, even moving fast, it was long and tiring. But as he moved he ignored the burn in his muscles. He ignored the screaming of every joint, constricting in the cold. His arthritis stabbed at him like a robber with a knife. He winced and grunted softly, cursing himself for breaking the silence, and continued on his way.

As he reached the bend, Jim crouched low and made his way to the edge of the kennel. It was a large building for the ten hounds he had. There were the four German Shepherds (Grace, Lily, Chuck, and Rosco), four Siberian Huskies (Blackie, Remus, Delilah, and Carly) and the two Caucasian Ovcharkas (Dmitri and Natasha). Each of them acclimated to the cold. The other dog he had roamed about freely. A black wolf that could come and go as he pleased. Some days he would sleep in the house and then he would leave for a week. He had no pack and he seemed to prefer it that way. But none of the dogs barked, though they were trained to attack anything they didn't recognize.

That made him uneasy. He was sure he'd find a pile of corpses inside the kennel. He steeled himself and gripped the gun tighter (his claw had been made specifically for combat, forming to the grips he had put in the weapons). He opened the door.

It gave a massive creak and he quickly brought the shotgun up, pressing the stock tightly against his shoulder. He swung it back and forth, scanning the lit room. He saw nothing. But as Jim walked further he could hear yips and panting. It sounded as if the dogs were playing. Which was odd. And unsettling.

He moved faster, but no louder than before, and flung himself to the corner by where the noise was coming from. He peered around the edge and almost dropped his gun. The dogs were jumping and wrestling with a woman. She was no more than thirty, she was tall and lean. She laughed as they licked her face. Lily knocked her over and they converged upon her, tongues falling out of their mouths and tails wagging.

Jim stood up. Natasha saw him and raced over. She was a large dog, both her and Dmitri were. The Caucasian Ovcharkas could grow to be the size of small bears. And these two were large even for their breed. She leapt at him, nuzzling under his chin. She was almost as tall as Jim when standing on her hind paws. Her thick, beautiful grey coat was fluffy and soft. But he paid no attention to her. He was staring at the woman. There was a flash of brown hair, almost bushy, as she rolled over and stood up.

She looked at him, locking eyes but not moving. She brushed a strand of hair away from her face. She smiled. "Hello, Harry Potter, it's been a long time," she said, her voice sweet and genuine.

He stared at her, his knees almost feeling week. There was a feeling of dread in his stomach. His throat closed tight and he felt lightheaded. He held the shotgun limply at his side, one hand sweating nervously, the claw attached to his stump shaking. He kept telling himself he was still dreaming. That none of this was real. He had to be back at the house, still in his bed, cold and sweating with more nightmarish memories of the past than could have been possible. This was just another one of those times. But Natasha bumped into his crotch and he felt the sharp pain of manhood shoot up his side. He winced and knew it was real. The woman still stood there, eyes locked, smiling warmly.

He opened his mouth to speak, but it was over taken by a thunderous, shrieking roar.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

At Heart Everyone's a Killer

**Six Years Previous**

**300 Miles West of Hafar Al Batin, Saudi Arabia**

**0300 Hours**

Under the cover of darkness a Blackhawk moved across the desert. There was no moon and the stars seemed dull in the sky above. In the chopper sat a team of six. They came from all different walks of life, from all different places. But they were closer than family, each of them working as one and watching their brothers in the line of fire.

There were three Americans. One from New Jersey, another from Louisiana, and the last from Alaska. Each of them never knew the other until the unit came together, but now they couldn't imagine a life without the other. The truth was, though each had their own talents and skills, everyone shared one common trait. They sat closest near the cockpit playing a jumbled game of poker. Cigarettes scattered as the chopper hit air-pockets, but they kept playing.

The tallest of them said, "Line 'em up boys, I got a full house!"

One of them groaned and both threw their cigarettes at him. The tallest of the three, they called him Moose, was the one from Alaska. He had a full beard and a hearty laugh. His father had been a lumberjack and his mother had been a housewife. But the family fell apart after a hard winter, where it snowed so hard and the wind blew so fierce that the house had caved in. And that was when Moose found his true self.

Next in line was a fidgety young man from New Jersey. He had large brown eyes that almost looked black. The thin corners of light flashed quickly in the dim red light they sat in. He gnawed on his fingernails with his large front teeth. Though the smallest of the group he was quick and he was lucky. Once he had taken a bullet in the back but it happened to hit the laptop he carried with him and stopped just short of his spine. He had lived in the slums and acquired a talent for scaling telephone poles and trees, scampering across the lines and branches. They called him Squirrel.

The third man was a man, who looked no different from anyone in a crowd, thrummed his knee pads and licked his lips, waiting for his next smoke. He had normal eyes and a normal physique. He hailed from the Deep South, the muggiest and thickest atmosphere you could find in the States. His grandpa had been a gator wrangler. And his father had been a gator hunter. And he in fact had tried to be a gator wrestler at the tender age of nine. But one slip up with a six footer had found him with a gaping hole in his neck and his head in the gator's mouth. And he'd wound up in the hospital being told there was no chance for him to ever talk again. And when Gator's whole world crashed around him, he was given a second chance by a man he'd never met. And now he sat with people just like him.

The chopper pilot flicked on his headset, "Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing shortly at delightful town of bum-fuck-nowhere, so if you'll please turn off all electronic devices, put your trays in the up position, and strap in it would be much appreciated. Once again we'd like to thank you for flying Griffin Airlines and wish you a safe stay!"

The broad-shouldered African threw a peanut at him and the pilot laughed. He flicked on the radio above the windshield.

_I'm gonna tell Aunt Mary 'bout Uncle John__  
__he said he had the misery but he got a lot of fun__  
__Oh, baby, yeah now baby__  
__Woo-oo-oo baby, some fun tonight, yeah_

They called the African _Mbembe_, after the creature said to live in the Congo. He was built like a tank, with shoulders like mountains and legs like tree trunks. He was the tallest of them all, with a bald head and sunken eyes that watched like a hawk. He lived on the land, trained in the ways of the traveling tribes. With no, one family, but many families, with many mothers and many fathers and too many siblings to count. The nomadic tribes lived from the Earth and listened to it. Harnessing its power to give them strength and comfort and their way of life. His voice shook the teeth of any he spoke to and his hands were as large as dinner plates. Mbembe was a walking mountain. And he sat eating his bag of peanuts as he always did. One after the other after the other.

Then there was the woman from Russia. She was the woman who broke hearts with her golden locks and her blue eyes, with skin like ice and lips like fire. She'd hardened over time, beating off advancing men with a stick that grew heavier with each blow. There was a sadness in those eyes that spoke volumes but their words were just out of reach, hidden behind a veil of shadow. Time after time she would check her weapon, one that looked as if merely holding it would topple her petite form. But she wielded it like a samurai and his sword. One entity, flowing like water through the rocks and fire through a field. Sphinx snapped a bubble of gum and glanced at the final member of their team. The leader. The Brit.

Everyone knew who he was long before they'd ever met him. Fame was a silly thing like that, a double edged sword. It's a blessing and lust for some, a curse and pain for others. And for this Scar, it was more than a curse. It had been the reason he'd chosen the life of a warrior, spending his time in the terror and comfort of war. And even though he was the most experienced out of them all, he was still the most nervous. He held his canteen in one hand and a bag for vomit in the other. No matter how many times he went on wet-work missions, he still didn't lose the shakes.

He took two breaths to try and calm the voices in his head and to soothe his stomach, but it didn't help. Scar shut his eyes tightly. The music was so loud.

_Well, I saw Uncle John with bald head Sally  
He saw Aunt Mary comin' and he ducked back in the alley_

_Oh baby, yes, baby  
Ooh baby, havin' me some fun tonight, yeah_

Someone keyed him over the comm. and he looked up. It was Sphinx. He put a finger to his ear.

"Go ahead."

"_You don't look so hot, Major. I got some Midol in my bag._" She smirked across the small cabin.

Moose laughed and Gator smiled. He signed something at Squirrel. Squirrel keyed his mic.

"_Gator says he'll buy you some ice cream when we get back._"

Now Mbembe's laugh thundered over Little Richard. Sphinx giggled into the headset and Moose threw out another full house.

"_Gold Leader come in, this is Alpha One how copy, over?_"

Scar switched to the private channel. "Gold Leader here, little static but good copy, over."

The pilot switched the light from read to yellow and the crew started checking their gear. The cards went away and the peanuts were shoved under the bucket seat. Sphinx slapped a cartridge into the chamber and got ready for her drop. She'd go first, keeping far away from the LZ providing recon and support from two clicks out. She opened the door and a quick rush of bitter air blew in. The bag of peanuts swept across the floor and out into the sand below. Mbembe cursed and Sphinx promised to buy him more later.

"_We have confirmation on HVTs in the area. Personal security is on patrol near the south entrance. The Death Eater camp is situated south east. Over."_

The helicopter slowed down, lowered, and hovered. Scar switched channels and gave Sphinx the thumbs up. "Good huntin' Nat."

"_Any hunt's a good hunt, Potter!" _ The rotors roared in the night sky and she shouted over them. She smirked and turned to the rest of her boys. "_Smell ya later,_" and she jumped. Her landing was soft and easy, rolling in the dune. The helicopter moved on, the radio silenced.

Scar switched back channels. "Solid copy Alpha One, heading to LZ now. Any intel on possible hostages, over?"

There was a pop and hiss of interference before the headset crackled with a voice. "_Uh,_ t_hat's a negative Gold Leader, assume any and all targets hostile. Good luck, Major. Over and out._"

He put his canteen back and stuffed the bag into the mesh pouch beside him. Scar made his way towards the cockpit, crouched, and switched to an open frequency so Sphinx could hear in.

"Alright guys, here's the run-down once more. We've got a group of sandies in a makeshift camp down there dealing with some remaining Death Eaters. Among them are some HVTs so if identifiable do _not_ shoot to kill. We need at least one of the bastards alive."

Sphinx clicked in, "_Any word on friendlies?_"

"That's a negative Corporal. Assume all targets hostile and shoot to kill. Besides one of the Death Eaters. Also, no intel on any mythies as of now, but not to say there's a manticore or two lying on the perimeter. I want this quick and I want it clean. Understood?"

Five 'Roger's came at once and Scar nodded. "Good to hear. One more thing, Death Eater HQ is on the south east perimeter. Wards are sure to be up so be on your guard. Hit from afar if applicable. Good hunting people."

"ETA one minute and counting!" The pilot descended again.

Everyone checked their ammo and flipped safety's off. The helicopter stopped and they gently rocked. The light went green and the door opened again. Scar took out a photo from his vest and ran his thumb across it. The girl in the picture smiled back at him, blinking occasionally. He put it back. Then he followed his men and signaled the chopper to move out. The pilot saluted and took off to the retreat distance to await the pickup orders.

The silencing charm Sphinx had thrown on the bird as it left had worked. He couldn't hear a single thing as it disappeared into the black sky.

They rushed quickly; Scar signaled to stop and pulled out his night vision goggles. Small lanterns shone brightly in the green and black lens. Four men shouldering AK-74's walked around the edge of the camp. Inside he saw many people sleeping and a few were talking away from the main tent. He quickly moved the goggles towards the east and saw the largest tent of them all in the corner. Outside the flap stood two, tall and stoic men. Wands in their hands, they scanned the camp and the darkness beyond. One looked directly into his own eyes, though there was no way the man could see him.

He opened his comm. for constant, unassisted communication and signaled his team to do the rest.

"Sphinx, what are you seeing?"

There was a pause before she spoke. "_I count seven awake and only four with rifles. The two guarding that main tent have got to be Death Eaters. I'd bet my rations on it._"

"That's what I'm seeing too. Anything else you see?"

"_That's a negative, Major. I'm only picking up them on the thermal_."

"Roger that, we are moving in." He tilted his hand forward twice and they moved again, like ghosts across the moor. "Silencers on, no verbal spells if you can help it. We go loud only if the jig is up."

They all twisted the extended and bulbous barrels onto their weapons. Only Mbembe didn't for his M60 wasn't compatible. But he waved his hand over it as his lips moved in silent incantations. The silencing charm may or may not have worked. They would only find out during the first firefight.

Scar moved first, reaching the outer most tent and peaked around the corner. One man rose from a mat and grabbed a rifle. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and walked to the edge of the camp, pulling himself from under a robe and relieving himself into the sand. Scar let his weapon hang on his strap and he pulled out his knife. It was lightning fast as his gloved hand clasped over the man's mouth. The sandy muffled a gasp in surprise as the knife was shoved deep into his lower back. The man writhed for a few seconds before his body kicked once more and then fell still. Scar laid him in the sand and moved forward.

He sent Squirrel and Gator around the far edge of the camp to head off the patrol. Mbembe and Moose moved in sync behind him.

Supposedly there was a cache of weapons around the area. Moose pulled out his wand and moved it slowly in the air. It snapped in one direction and he followed it. Scar motion for Mbembe to follow him. He was alone.

"Sphinx, just me here, watch my back."

"_Don't I always_?" She reminded him of _her_. And a pang of sorrow stabbed at his heart. He shook it off, there'd be more time for that later.

He came close to the target area and threw himself into the sand. Two men in black robes moved out of the front flap and past the guards. They parted for them and then fell back into their spots.

"_I have two on the thermal moving away from the main camp, permission to drop them?_"

"Wait on it Sphinx, I don't wanna be caught out here with my dick in my hand."

"_Squirrel here, took down three sandies, all quiet and no mess. Circling to the HVT area now._"

"Roger that. Moose? How copy on that weapons cache?"

A heavy breath let out over the comm. "_You ain't gonna believe this, Major. They got some high grade tech here. Not just military, this is fuckin' World War Three shit. Plus we found a few crates of illegal wand imports and some merfolk armor. It's like a goddamn Christmas party in here_."

"Roger."

He snaked his way forward through the sand, crawling his way towards the tent. He was close and then even closer. That's when he heard the snap of a rifle bolt behind him and shouting in sandy. He rolled over but before either of them could pull off a shot, the sandy's chest erupted from the back and blew chunks of flesh and bone all over him. Then the crack of the sniper rifle swept through the air.

That's when things went from clean and quick to FUBAR.

"Loud! Go loud!" He shouted into his headset. The _thwump, thwump, thwump_, of Mbembe's M60 woke the entire camp up.

Scar pushed himself up and ran at the tent; He dodged two green swooshes of light that exploded in the sand behind him. He popped off a few rounds in both Death Eaters. Three in the chest, two in the head. Their bodies dropped to the ground like slabs of beef. Four sandies tore from the tent and tried to flee into the night. He dropped three and the other ones head exploded, quickly followed by the crack of Sphinx's rifle.

A grenade exploded from across the camp and a few people were screaming.

"Everyone, sit rep!"

"_Squirrel here,_" he paused as his submachine gun clinked and Gator's shotgun thumped in the background. "_Encountering heavy resistance in the north east. They have crummy aim thou- Son of a bitch! What a shot, Gator!_" His transmission dropped out.

"_Sphinx here, everything fine on this end._" Another shot rang out and she grunted. "_I dropped those two Death Eaters from before. Out._"

"Alright Moose, talk to me."

"_We're doin' fine over here. Right there Mbembe! Take em at the knees!_" The M60 chugged along.

"Good, keep on that supply cache. I'm moving in on the HVTs."

Quickly, he rushed the front flap. He peppered entrance with a few rounds from his M4 and ducked in. There were only five in the tent. He took four out quickly. Each of them were literally caught with their pants around their ankles. The last one he popped in the knee cap. The Death Eater screamed out and dropped his wand, grasping the open wound.

Scar stepped on the wand breaking it in two. The fighting was dying down outside. The sniper rang out twice more in quick succession. Scar moved towards the Death Eater. He looked familiar. Long blonde hair fell across the sand. He knew who it was.

"Lucious."

The Death Eater looked up in terror. "You!"

"Scarhead!"

Scar turned around with his finger on the trigger. A younger, blonde man was swooshing his wand through the air. "Avada Ked-" before he could finish his body jerked as bullets passed through flesh and meat. The body collapsed in a heap.

"Draco!" Lucious screamed out in horror. "You!" He glared into Scar's eyes. "You're dead, Potter! I swear you and that mudblood bit-"

Scar brought his boot across his face. He heard the crunch of bone and the man's head lolled to the side. Not dead but out of commission.

"HVT in possession, bring that bird back around. Hot LZ."

"_Roger that Gold Leader_."

"All teams, report."

Everyone responded fine. Someone even laughed. He allowed himself to smile. He sat on a cot and pulled out the picture again, tracing the lines of her face and smelling vanilla. She silently giggled.

He stood as his team entered the tent.

"_Pick up in thirty._"

Scar spat and wiped his mouth. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

Moose picked up Malfoy and carried the limp figure over his shoulder. They all headed out the flap but Scar stopped. He looked back at the dead pile of filth that was his childhood nemesis. He walked over calmly and put his rifle down on the mattress. He had time for one last thing.

He pulled his leg back and swung it forward with all the force he had. But the body rolled over, wand in hand, and shouted, "Sectumsempra!"

He felt a horrible pain and his stomach dropped. The head on the blonde boy dropped back and he heard a missile screeching overhead. But when he looked over to where the pain was, he realized it wasn't a missile. It was his screaming he heard.

* * *

She shook him out of his macabre reverie. His screaming and its roaring were not that much different.

"Harry… what is that?" She looked fearful. His insides felt like she looked.

It was as if his ears were filling with blood. The roar was so loud the dogs cowered in fear. They fled into their individual kennels, whimpering as they went.

He snapped himself back into his body and moved across the floor to the lights. He killed the breaker and everything devolved into darkness. He switched on the flashlight of his shotgun and made his way back towards the door.

"Wait here, Hermione." It felt wonderful and horrible at the same time to say her name again. The void he'd felt for so long was filled, but the dread that came with his past shot through his veins like heroin. He felt warm and then very cold. His bones ached and his stump throbbed.

"Will you please tell me what's going on?" He kept walking. "Hey!" The door was close now. "Hey! I'm talking to you!" She spun him around to face her. Even though he saw very little with the light pointed at the floor he could see the anger in her face. The snarl in her perfect mouth between the nicest lips he'd ever seen and the glare of almond eyes that went on forever.

He sighed. "It's back and I have to take care of it," he said simply shrugging his shoulders. It was as if she should have known. He didn't feel like explaining. He was scared shitless but it had to be done.

"_What_, is back, Harry?" He hated hearing that name. He left it behind for a reason. But if she said it there wasn't much he could do. Only she could take him back without too much of the pain seeping in.

"You wouldn't understand if I told you." He turned to leave again but she spun him back again.

"Try me."

The tension all but crackled through the air. He stared her down in the dark, and she him.

"I don't have time for this; I have to go before it takes another ox." He walked towards the door and shrugged off her hand as she tried yet again to turn him.

"Let me come with you then. I can help."

He shook his head, though he knew she couldn't see it in the dark. "Can you shoot a gun?" He asked.

Slowly she spoke. "No… but I don't need to, I'm a witch, remember. You _do_ remember magic, don't you?"

It was if she had slapped him across the face. She was getting pissed and so was he.

"Of course I do!" He spat. She recoiled in the dark. "There isn't a fucking day that goes by that I don't remember!" He turned to face her this time. "But that doesn't matter here. This fucking thing shrugs off spells like bugs against a windshield!"

"Harry," she said softer this time. "What _thing_?"

He stared into her eyes in the glisten of the flashlight. "Satchmo."


End file.
